Possession
by MizJoely
Summary: When a recently returned-from-the-dead Sherlock goes to the roof of St. Bart's to confront his ghosts, he doesn't expect to do so literally. But the angry spirit of Jim Moriarty has plans of his own…especially when it comes to a certain Pathologist. Eventual Sherlolly.
1. Prologue - The View From On High

It was cold, windy, damp. So different to the last time he'd been on this rooftop, gazing down at the street below. Standing on the ledge, about to jump, Jim Moriarty's corpse with its head in a pool of blood and brains cooling on the asphalt behind him. He gazed down at the street from his perch on the very same ledge, this time his only goal the exorcising of personal demons that continued to plague him. The fear of heights was temporary, restricted only to certain London rooftops, including this one, but he needed to rid himself of the ridiculous phobia before it grew and eventually crippled him.

He took a deep breath, opened his tightly shut eyes, and finally allowed himself to look down. Down to the site of his fall. The place where John Watson had rushed to his side, staring at him in shock and disbelief. The place where he'd "died."

A moment's dizziness overtook him, but he shook it off. Resolutely continued to stare down at the pavement far beneath his feet. Took a deep, steadying breath. Stepped back off the ledge and onto the roof proper. Demon faced, phobia hopefully vanquished, he remained for a moment, eyes closed, simply breathing in the familiar scents of the London air, a miasma of trash and traffic and cooking and...blood?

His eyes snapped open and he looked around for the source of that familiar tang. There should be no lingering smell of blood on the rooftop, not after two full years. Not after rains and the clean-up crews and certainly not after new asphalt shingles had been laid only three weeks ago. So where...

_Well, I can't say I'm surprised to see you up here, Sherlock. It was only a matter of time, wasn't it?_

He stiffened at the sound of that voice, familiar, hated...belonging to a dead man.

A truly dead man, not one who'd merely played dead like himself. Jim Moriarty had killed himself, put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger, and there was no coming back from the kind of damage Sherlock had seen. As if that wasn't enough evidence, his body had been recovered by Mycroft's men and his identity confirmed. James Moriarty was well and truly dead.

So why was Sherlock hearing his voice now?

His first thought was that it was some kind of trickery; a hidden microphone, a voice impersonator, or (less likely but not impossible given the reason for his presence on the rooftop) even an audible hallucination brought on by the ambiance of this place, a place it had taken him two months to face down since his return. The lingering scent of blood would be explained by such an internal phenomenon as well, laced as it now was with the acrid tang of gunpowder.

It had to be his own mind playing tricks on him. He'd come to this rooftop to lay the ghost of his final confrontation with Jim Moriarty to rest, and thus had conjured up more visceral memories of that day as well.

_Ooh, I do love watching your mind at work, Sherlock. Such a well-oiled machine, so busy dismissing the impossible in favor of...what, exactly? What am I, Sherlock? How are you hearing me?_

With a jolt he realized that the voice was coming from within his own mind, was nothing his ears were actually hearing. _His_ voice. Moriarty. Even conjured from his memory and imagination, he knew he would never have put those words in the dead man's mouth. Which meant…

_No_. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the impossibility that had presented itself to him in the form of a theory. Ridiculous. Insanity. He must be losing his mind, that well-oiled machine he was justifiably proud of. Else he wouldn't even be considering...

_Considering what, Sherlock? The possibility of some form of life after death? Of the existence of spirits, ghosts, demons and angels as more than abstract concepts? Daddy's impressed! I would have thought you'd fight the idea a bit harder, Mr. Pragmatic._

The voice, a mere whisper at first, was gaining in volume and power until it sounded as clearly in his mind as the voice of a living man would in his ear. Moriarty's voice and no other, right down to the light Irish lilt, the rising and falling inflection, the faint tone of mockery in every word.

He scanned the rooftop again almost desperately. There was no one else. He was alone.

He'd told no one but Molly of his intention to return here today, and only moments before making the move from statement to action. No time for anyone to set up some kind of elaborate hoax, unless such a plot had already been put in place…no. Ridiculous waste of time and effort for either a prank or an attempt to discommode him. Especially since Moran had been taken down, the last cog in the vast machinery that had once been Moriarty's criminal empire.

Shaking his head again, he started toward the stairwell, unwilling to give any possible observer a chance to either see how unsettled he really was by the odd occurrences he'd just experienced, or possibly take a bead on him with a sniper rifle. Of course, if that was the goal he'd already made a target of himself; the fact that he was still alive indicated the need to discard such a theory.

No, it was certainly his own mind that was playing tricks on him. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come back to the roof, to confront the site of his fall from grace. Clearly that desire had awakened some form of guilt or regret from deep within him, although until this very moment he would have scoffed at the very idea. Jim Moriarty had been an evil, depraved murderer who'd got exactly what he'd deserved: a lonely death at his own hands.

_My, aren't we judgmental today_, the mocking voice sounded in his mind. He shook his head as if to dislodge it, only to hear it devolve into a high-pitched giggle of amusement. _Oh, Sherlock, you're not getting rid of me that easily. No, I'm in here now and I'm not leaving. In fact, I think it's time you went away for a bit and let me take control, hmm?_

Sherlock's rapid steps faltered and halted as he felt some unseen force seize control of him. He stumbled to one knee, steadying himself automatically as his hand slapped onto the filthy asphalt shingles, his mind locked in a type of battle he'd never fought before. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, overcome by a dizziness so profound it seemed he could actually feel the revolving of the world around him, tilting beneath his hands and knees as he scrambled for control of his thoughts…and lost.

In that moment found himself falling, over and over, tumbling through his own mind to vanish into some dark, inaccessible hole, his identity forced away from the living world.

When his eyes opened, it was no longer Sherlock Holmes looking out through them. They flashed and glowed silver for the briefest of moments: Jim Moriarty had taken possession, and the gleeful grin that split his features had very little of sanity about it.


	2. Things to See, People to Do

_A/N: Wow, again, thanks for all the enthusiastic reviews of this story! It will get pretty dark soon, just keep that in mind as you read, and remember that I generally like to end things like a fairy tale, with "happily ever after" as a huge part of the equation. Enjoy the ride, and thanks for reading!_

* * *

Molly frowned as her mobile rang, distracting her from the pathogen she was researching online. What did Sherlock want now? She'd already played lookout for him when he insisted on returning to the roof, the scene of the crime, as it were, from two years ago. He'd been up there far longer than the five minutes he'd assured her it would take for him to do whatever it was he intended to do, long enough for her to get fidgety and start half-way up the stairs to check on him. The sight of him barreling down towards her had relieved her mind; not that she'd been worried, exactly, that he was going to dive off the roof for a second time, but still. Part of her, the deepest, most secret part of her heart, would never stop worrying about him. Ever.

He'd left without so much as a single word, simply nodding when she called a sarcastic: "You're welcome!" after his retreating form, the Belstaff buttoned up to his chin and his hands deep in the coat's pockets. She'd shrugged and taken the stairs back down to the basement, figuring she might as well get some exercise out of this little excursion before returning to the work Sherlock had interrupted.

She couldn't keep a smile from her lips even though she told herself she was annoyed with him. Perhaps the message – he'd sent a text, naturally – would be an apology? He did that more frequently now that he'd returned from the 'dead,' just as he was a bit nicer to her since admitting that she counted and that he'd always trusted her.

Of course, he wasn't the only one who'd changed since that dramatic day two years past. She'd spent enough time in his battered and bruised presence to lose a little of the near-awe she'd always felt for him. Oh, his incredibly agile mind still impressed her; she still loved him, deeply and profoundly and still quite unrequitedly (even through her disastrous engagement to Tom Hicks, which had ended badly two days after Sherlock's return when the other man had realized exactly how Molly felt about the no-longer-dead consulting detective), but he'd become a little more human to her that day, the man willing to sacrifice so much to keep his friends safe. She'd begun to understand him, just a bit, just enough for her to be able to stand up to him when he was biting and sarcastic and practically climbing the walls with boredom while waiting for enough time to pass to allow him to emerge from her flat and begin his mission to dismantle the criminal labyrinth the late Jim Moriarty had left behind.

There was good reason for Molly to continue to worry about Sherlock Holmes; after all, he'd nearly died for real the day of his return, flushed out of hiding by Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's former lieutenant and marksman. The sniper had almost killed John Watson as well, but now he was behind bars and John and Sherlock were alive and kicking. All's well that ends well, wasn't that what the Bard said?

Her mobile gave another impatient little beep, reminding her that while she'd been drifting in her thoughts there was a message waiting for her.

She looked and smiled. From Sherlock, as expected. _Meet me at the flat after your shift. Bring dinner. Thai, not Chinese. SH_

She shook her head, still grinning. Typical Sherlock, apologizing without apologizing. She would pick up the Thai from the place near the Tube station that let out nearest his Baker Street flat, and after she left for home she'd find the money to cover the cost tucked discreetly into an inner pocket of her handbag. She responded to the text in the affirmative, heroically holding back on the urge to sign it "Love, Molly XXOO" even in jest, and tucked her mobile back into her lab coat pocket.

She tried to focus on her research, but her mind kept returning to her first sight of Sherlock after he'd come back to London, to the life he'd been forced to leave behind, the damage that had been caused to more than just him when he jumped off the roof and faked his death. He'd nearly scared her out of her skin, lurking in the shadows of the staff changing room at the end of an overnight shift, but knowing that he was done with his undercover life had been all she needed to hear to put a smile back on her face.

The smile hadn't lasted as he admitted to seeing John – and further admitted that the reunion hadn't exactly gone smoothly. Of course, the growing bruise that had decorated his cheek attested to that. John had been so angry with him; even now, nearly two months later, he still occasionally could be heard muttering about stupid bastards and rooftops under his breath.

He seemed to reserve the bulk of his lingering resentment for Sherlock, although Molly had unflinchingly accepted he harsh words he'd had for her once he learned of her part in the plan. Only the fact that, once Sherlock had vanished from her flat a week after she'd smuggled him in, she'd had no idea if he was still alive, kept John from completely blowing up at her for pretending to grieve along with him.

Not that she'd actually done any pretending; her worries and fears for Sherlock's safety might not have been the same as John's genuine grief for the supposed loss of his best friend, or as damaging to her psyche, but she'd felt them and John had been told by her – and, surprisingly enough, by Sherlock – that he had no right to belittle her feelings just because she'd known Sherlock had faked his suicide. Nor because she'd helped him to do it.

Well, John had a new girlfriend to keep him busy at the moment; with any luck, Mary would help him reach a point where he could fully forgive Sherlock. He was really, really close, Molly could tell; he'd started his blog up again and even gone on a couple of cases with Sherlock already. Granted, DI Lestrade had a lot to do with that, but still. Progress was progress.

John and Sherlock's relationship was progressing, John and Mary's relationship was progressing, even her own friendship with Sherlock was progressing. She was the only one who seemed to have taken a step backwards, after trying so hard to move on with her life and find love with someone who actually returned her feelings.

Molly repressed a sigh as her mind wistfully lingered on the fact that she'd hoped things would progress beyond mere friendship with Sherlock someday, but she was a practical girl at heart and would take what she could get. If Sherlock couldn't offer her more than friendship, well, it was certainly better than the dismissive way he'd treated her for the bulk of their working relationship.

"Back to work, Molly Hooper," she ordered herself. Dinner was still more than four hours away, after all.

**oOo**

Sherlock's eyes gleamed with satisfaction and his lips curled in a smile as he read the text from Molly Hooper. Good. She would bring dinner, they would eat it, and then…

His eyes glowed a soft, gossamer silver as Moriarty's hold on Sherlock's mind slipped, just the slightest bit, Sherlock surging from his mental prison as the malevolent spirit allowed him to see just what he had planned for the sweet little pathologist after dinner. The struggle for control was brief, Sherlock's face morphing from gleeful satisfaction to a snarl of rage as his prisoner fought to eject his unwanted mental tenant and the spirit of Jim Moriarty fought just as hard to retain control.

The supernatural force won out over the man who until a few hours ago had not believed even in the smallest measure that such an entity could ever exist. Weakened by the struggle, Moriarty felt Sherlock's heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in gasps as he muttered: "Good try, darling, but we both know I'll always come out on top."

Gradually his heartbeat and breathing returned to normal, and Sherlock's eyes returned to their indeterminate blue-green shade. To outward appearances, he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, coolly in control of himself as always. His lip curled in another dark smile. "Appearances can be sooo deceiving, can't they?" he whispered as he donned Sherlock's – his, now – favorite black coat and left the flat.

There was a limit to the amount of time he could spend inhabiting Sherlock's body, and there was a lot he needed to accomplish before he was eventually forced to seek a new host. Right now, for example, he had a lunch date with John Watson and his girlfriend, Mary Morstan, that he absolutely could not miss.

It was going to be absolutely _delicious_.


	3. Picking at the Cracks in the Facade

_A/N: Happy New Year's Eve, everyone! a small gift for all my fabulous, loyal, readers. Hopes that things go much better for you than they currently are for Sherlock's friends in this story, heh! :)_

* * *

"Really, Sherlock? _Really_? You had to cut her to pieces like that?"

John Watson was furious, absolutely, positively furious with his flatmate, and he wasn't about to let him off the hook, not this time. Not after that absolute disaster of a lunch. The only reason he hadn't already punched him was because he'd been too busy trying to calm a seething Mary to be bothered with giving Sherlock the beating he truly deserved for being such an arse.

It was as if he'd reverted to behaviors John thought the fall from the roof of St. Bart's had burned out of him. He'd been different since his return, less of a prat to the people whose lives had hung, all unknowingly, in the balance due to Moriarty's last act as a living man. It was a good thing that bastard was dead, or John would have happily killed him himself.

Just as, at the moment, he felt perfectly capable of murdering his so-called best friend. He slammed the door to the flat shut as he stormed in and confronted Sherlock, who had sprawled out in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk on his face that only served to fuel John's ever-growing ire.

Sherlock finally looked up at him, having the gall to roll his eyes and huff in that impatient way he had. "Really, John," he drawled, "what did you expect? For me to just lie down and let your latest conquest try and wrap me around her little finger the way she's clearly done to you?" The corner of his upper lip lifted in a sneer. "But then, it's not her little finger she's using to control you, is it? No, it's her sweet little pus…"

"Sherlock!" John half-shouted as he took a menacing step forward, fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking with rage, barely holding onto his control as he snapped: "Don't you _even_ go there, Sherlock. I love Mary, you know that…"

Sherlock jumped to his feet and got right in his face with those words, breathing nearly as hard as John was, eyes narrowed, hands loose at his sides as he hissed out: "Bullshit. You don't love her, you love getting your cock sucked every night without having to take her out to dinner and a movie first."

John didn't even realize he'd punched Sherlock until suddenly he was standing over the other man's prone body, watching him try to staunch the flow of blood from his nose as he…laughed?

John's eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right here, not right at all. "Christ, Sherlock, what have you taken?" he demanded, gone from angry boyfriend to concerned friend and doctor in a heartbeat. He crouched down to try and get a clear look at his friend's eyes, but Sherlock waved him away, still laughing, still bleeding, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief and pressing it to his face.

"Sorry to disappoint you, John, but a piss test won't show any foreign contaminants in my system," he said as his laughter died down. The two men glowered at each other until Sherlock finally sighed and said: "Let me guess. That was crossing the line, that last comment, however accurate?"

John felt the urge to punch him again, fought it down grimly. The man was still on his back on the floor, after all. "Yeah, Sherlock, that crossed a line. The line of good taste, friendship – you name it, you crossed it. Now tell me _why_." Because there absolutely had to be a reason; even Sherlock wasn't this much of a dick. Especially lately. Moody, unpredictable, easily bored – all that and more, but not this much of a dick.

Sherlock actually looked contrite as he answered. "Sorry, John, it's just…I went to the roof of St. Bart's earlier today. Molly lent me the key."

John's face instantly changed from anger to concern. "Christ, why didn't you tell me? Better still, why didn't you ask me to come up with you? I know how you feel about sentiment, but even you aren't made of iron, Sherlock. You shouldn't have gone by yourself."

"You're right, John, I shouldn't have," Sherlock agreed. John frowned; was that a flash of glee he saw on the other man's face? No, he must have imagined it; he'd been home and 'alive' for two months now and facing that bloody rooftop had been something he hadn't been able to manage until now. Just as it had taken John almost a year to be able to even go near the vicinity of St. Bart's.

Sherlock was speaking again while John's mind wandered. "It was a mistake and I'm afraid it's put me a bit out of temper." A wry grin as he levered himself up to a sitting position, not bothering to rise from the floor as he continued to hold his handkerchief to his bloody nose. "Please tender my apologies to Miss Morstan, and tell her it won't happen again." He paused, head tilted consideringly. "Well. I shall _try_ not to let it happen again. Since I give the relationship less than six months, it shouldn't be too difficult."

John shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. He'd been about to extend a hand and help Sherlock back to his feet, but of course the bloody arse couldn't keep his mouth shut. "You know what, Sherlock? You believe what you want, but when I ask you to be best man at my wedding, you remember what a dick you were the first time you met my future wife, yeah?"

With that, he stormed out of the flat, not bothering to shut the door behind him as he clattered down the stairs. He'd managed to calm Mary down before putting her in a taxi and sending her home, but now he felt the need to see for himself that she was doing all right. And to maybe get a little calming down from her as well, seeing as Sherlock had just undone all the goodwill he'd temporarily regained.

**oOo**

Moriarty gazed through Sherlock's eyes, watching with a satisfied smirk on his face as John Watson rode off in the back of the cab that had stopped at his hail. "Oh, Johnny boy, the hoops I'm going to make you jump through," he murmured softly as he allowed the curtain to drop back into place. "If you think I made Miss Morstan upset now, just wait until the next time I see the two of you."

It had been well worth the punch, which had been much less of a pummeling than he'd expected to receive at John's hands, to be honest. Still, it would be more than enough to stir Molly's sympathy. Not that the stupid little bint needed much in the way of encouragement to want to put her hands all over Sherlock's body, but every little bit helped when the object of the game wasn't something as simple and boring as mere seduction.

Oh, no, when he was through with Sherlock Holmes' body, the very people he'd gone to such lengths to save would hate him more than they'd ever hated anyone in their lives.

Especially the stupid, pathetic, love-struck little cunt that helped him fake his suicide right under Moriarty's own nose.

_Don't like it, do you? Getting a taste of your own medicine. Being outsmarted by someone you dismissed as hopelessly ordinary._

That supercilious, snotty voice ringing through his head…how the hell had Sherlock escaped his spider hole this time? "Naughty, Sherlock! I'm in charge now, remember? So don't even think about having another go at taking back over." _You'll be trapped inside you own brain until I decide to let you back out, and not a second sooner,_ he thought with a mental trill of laughter, enjoying the fact that Sherlock only knew what he wanted him to – and that his prisoner would have no idea that there was a time limit to their little reunion. _Remember, I've had two years to get this whole ghost thing down; you didn't really think I spent all that time up on the roof waiting for you, did you?_

He sensed the stillness of his adversary's restless mind at that little revelation; wonderful, the man actually did think Moriarty had been – what, just up there, brooding and waiting for his favorite plaything to come back and give him a reason to live again? Oh no; although he'd been trapped by the physical confines of the hospital (and still had no idea why) since the first moment he'd found himself hovering over his own lifeless body, he'd been far from idle.

Well, actually he had been somewhat idle at first, the shock of finding himself still existing even after blowing his own brains out keeping him frozen for several crucial minutes. He'd watched from his incorporeal vantage point a hundred feet above Sherlock's head as the other man jumped, as he pulled off his sleight-of-hand trick, fooled his pet Watson into believing he'd actually died...and Moriarty had howled with frustration at the knowledge that he could do absolutely nothing to change things, to contact his snipers and inform them of the cheat, unaware at the time of the potential in his new form.

No, he'd been little other than an ectoplasmic ball of rage for weeks after that, until he regained control of himself and set to work learning the limits of his abilities as a spirit, eventually discovering how to take over and control a living, breathing body, bend it to his will, keep the original owner locked away and helpless while he did what he liked. It was unfortunate that the bodies could only contain his spirit for a few days at a time, but he got a great deal of enjoyment out of watching the people he'd possessed either scrabble for explanations as to their erratic behavior or curl into unresponsive balls, catatonic, after he'd been forced to leave.

He'd kept it fairly low-key (for him), not killing anyone or doing any serious damage, and not just in order to keep from being found out; he was saving all that for the day he knew would eventually come. The day Sherlock Holmes returned to the roof from which he was meant to have jumped to his death. Because just taking him over in the hospital itself wasn't going to be nearly as much fun, and certainly nowhere near as ironic.

What was more, when the time came for Jim Moriarty to give up this body, Sherlock Holmes was going to go right back up to that rooftop and jump for a second time. Only this time the outcome was going to be the one Jim Moriarty dictated. The one he would watch and gloat over until his adversary was nothing but a bloody patch on the pavement below. And to make it even more glorious, no one would care, because right up until that point Sherlock Holmes was going to be very, very busy destroying all those precious friendships he'd somehow managed to create for himself.

All of them: John Watson (well begun by today's mischief, a mere prelude of things to come), the irritating Martha Hudson, DI Lestrade, all of them. This time no one would be forgotten or overlooked.

Especially not Molly. Fucking. Hooper.

He allowed his prisoner selective access to his memories of those early days and experiments before mentally 'speaking' to him again. _I kept an eye on you, you know. Waited for the day to come when you __finally decided to confront your new-found fear of heights, the one you think nobody knows about, _he taunted._ Your emotions, always so controlled, they were right on the surface, so easy for me to slip inside you while you fought down your demons. _Another mocking laugh. _Too bad you didn't know one of those demons was more of the literal than the metaphorical kind, eh?_

No response. He shrugged; oh well. No doubt his prisoner was busy analyzing away at what he'd just been told, but he wasn't worried about Sherlock Holmes breaking free from this trap. No, he'd stay right where he was until the moment his body stepped off the ledge and began the free-fall to his death.

And Jim Moriarty was going to savor every second of that descent.


	4. Without Consent

**Warning: NonCon. Semi-explicit.**

* * *

"Sherlock! What happened? You've been injured!"

Molly pushed the door shut behind her, the bag of Thai take-away and her purse hastily dropped to the floor as she rushed to Sherlock's side to get a closer look at him. His poor nose was swollen and red, and there was a bloody handkerchief sitting crumpled up on the low table facing his sofa, where he was currently lying, head back and one hand over his eyes.

As she reached his side, he lowered his arm and looked at her, beaming widely – and a bit uncharacteristically. "Molly! You're here! Fantastic, I'm starving!"

He started to jump to his feet, but Molly stopped him with her hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, your nose...what happened?" she asked again, more insistently this time.

He reached up and patted the end of his nose gingerly, as if he'd forgotten all about it. "Oh, that." He shrugged and seemed to find the ceiling fascinating all of a sudden. "John hit me."

"What? Why?" Molly asked as she sank down onto the low table fronting the sofa, still studying his face anxiously. "What happened?"

He shrugged again, but this time when he attempted to rise, Molly let him, watching as he wandered to the door and retrieved their dinner from where it had landed, still safe in the Styrofoam take-away containers, thank goodness. "Oh, he took me to meet his latest conquest and it didn't go quite as well as he'd hoped."

His voice was dismissive, almost bored, and Molly was on her feet in a shot, blocking him from entering the kitchen, hands on hips and eyebrows lowered in a frown as she said: "You said something horrible to Mary, didn't you. Oh, Sherlock, how could you?" Her voice caught a bit and she found herself blinking back sudden tears as she continued speaking. "She's not a 'conquest,' you git! She's the reason he was able to, to go on after you j-jumped." Oh, the despised stutter was back. Great, just flipping great. She took a steadying breath and finished up. "You had better fix this, Sherlock. John is your closest friend and he loves Mary, really loves her. I think – I think she might be the one."

Sherlock regarded her through the entire muddled speech, face expressionless, the take-away bag dangling from one hand. As she closed her mouth and waited for him to say something – anything – he surprised her by moving closer to her, dropping the bag, darting his head forward...

...and kissing her.

Her brain seemed to freeze at the impossibility of the moment. Sherlock Holmes was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, his arms were around her, and He. Was. _Kissing_ her.

For a few moments Molly simply melted into his embrace. It had finally happened; Sherlock had finally taken the step that would change their relationship, and all she felt was blind joy.

Until the kiss subtly began to alter. Until his tongue was probing for entrance to her mouth, thrusting demandingly between her lips. Until his hands were roaming over her body, tugging at her clothing, squeezing her breasts as he used his superior size and strength to shove her up against the wall. One knee was wedged between her thighs, the hard ridge of his arousal hot and heavy against her hip, and the voice of reason was screaming to be heard at the suddenness of it all.

"Sherlock!" she gasped out, turning her head and ending the kiss, struggling to push his hands away from where they'd latched onto hip and breast. "What, what are you doing?"

"Oh, Molly, don't try to pretend you don't want this." Sherlock's voice was lightly mocking as he refused to budge, digging his fingers more tightly into her flesh, hard enough to draw a protesting whimper from her throat. His face was close to hers, so close she felt his breath stirring the loose hairs on the side of her face and raising goose bumps in spite of her burst of panic. "Isn't this what you've been dreaming about every single night since you first met me?"

His grasp loosened, turned into a series of soft caresses as the hand on her hip inched its way upward, ghosting across her bare skin while the hand on her breast stroked softly, rousing her nipple into a peak before she knew what was happening. He made as if to kiss her again, but she raised one hand and pressed it against his mouth, pushing his head back, squirming beneath his hold in another unsuccessful attempt to free herself from his looming form. "Sherlock, this is – it's too fast. It's not like you, I don't understand..."

He rolled his eyes with an impatient huff. "There's nothing to understand, Molly. You want me, I want you, and I've finally decided there's no reason to pretend otherwise." There was a look of sly malice in his eyes as he added, "Especially now that you've dumped that poor excuse for a lookalike you engaged yourself to – or should I say, that second rate 'Sher_lock_-alike'?" He tsked. "Honestly, Molly, what _were_ you thinking?"

Then he kissed her again, and she was too stunned to stop him, her brain frozen and her body as well. Then the voice in her mind was screaming at her, warning her that this was wrong, something wasn't right, she needed to stop this...

"Stop!" she gasped out as his lips descended to her neck, his hands now pinning her by her shoulders. "Sherlock, please," she managed to choke out in spite of the rising fear clogging her throat. "This isn't...it isn't you, not like you at all." She peered closer into his eyes as a sudden suspicion hit her. "Sherlock, did you take something..." Her voice trailed off and her own eyes widened as she saw his irises; the blue-green with flecks of amber was slowly disappearing, flooded from the pupils out by a slow, creeping tide of darkest brown, nearly black. She sucked in a shocked breath, frozen by the unnatural sight.

"Mmm, that's very sweet, you're still trying to find some reason for me to act like this, to make it not just Sherlock being Sherlock, a self-centered control freak," he replied with a cold chuckle, not reacting in the slightest to her sudden lack of movement, the way she was still staring, almost hypnotized, watching as his eyes completely changed color. "Typical Molly, always trying to fix things, to make them right, to see the world through rose colored fucking lenses."

His mouth returned to her neck, biting down hard enough to draw a ragged cry of pain from her lips, jolting her from her paralysis. "So sorry to disappoint you, Saint Molly, but Sherlock isn't under the influence of drugs tonight. No one's jabbed him with a needle and brought this on him. It's how he's always felt about you. Shall I let you in on a little secret?" he asked, his breath warm on her ear. "He's always wanted you, just never allowed himself to indulge. It's why he's always treated you like shit, kept you at arm's length but never further away – he couldn't take you for himself the way he wanted to, but he always made damn sure no one else could have you, either. It's why you never could find the right bloke, until _he_ was out of the picture."

She was shaking now, truly terrified at the sound of Sherlock referring to himself in the third person. But that was nothing to the panic that overcame her as he added, his voice inexplicably rising in a mocking Irish lilt: "It's why it was so fucking easy to prance into the lab and give him all the clues he needed to sabotage yet another of your pathetic attempts at a relationship, by outing me as gay."

Oh God. Sherlock had completely lost it; he'd snapped, thought he was Jim Moriarty. It had to be some kind of delayed shock from his visit to the St. Bart's rooftop earlier in the day, a PTSD flashback or something. Or was it possible that it was the effects of some kind of designer drug he'd taken or been given – how else to explain the unsettling, impossible change in his eyes? "Sherlock," she said, keeping her voice as steady and soothing as she could in spite of her fears. "Please, you have to listen to me..."

He laughed, head thrown back as his hands moved up to grasp either side of her face. When the laughter stopped, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breathing heavily. "No, Molly," he said softly when he'd recovered well enough to speak. "I don't have to do anything except what I want to do. And right now, I really want to kiss you again."

And he did, despite her protests, her attempts to extricate herself from his hold. In desperation she bit down on his lip, hard, and he pulled away with a snarl of rage. She tried to dodge away from him, opening her mouth to shout for help, but one of his hands was around her throat and the other was tearing at her clothing and things had gone horribly wrong so quickly that she could barely wrap her head around it. She was trying not to panic, trying to find a way to free herself, but her vision was slowly darkening as Sherlock's hand tightened its grip on her throat, cutting off her breath as well as her screams; the blood was pounding in her ears, and she was clawing ineffectually at him, her movements growing more and more feeble as her oxygen supply disappeared. Then everything went dark, the last thing she saw Sherlock's inexplicably dark brown eyes boring into hers.

**oOo**

Molly came back to consciousness slowly, wheezing and gasping, to find that she was lying on some unyielding surface; where was she, what had happened, why was there a heavy weight on her body, a slight burn between her legs...

Memory returned in a rush and her eyes widened as she opened her eyes and saw Sherlock's naked body resting above hers. No, not just resting above her; he was moving rhythmically against her, lowering his head to her throat and nipping it at. He was the cause of the burn, of the sense of weight and not-rightness she was feeling...oh God, he was...no, this wasn't right, Sherlock couldn't possibly be doing _that_ to her...

But he was. He was, oh God, no, he was inside her; she could feel it now, strained to push him off her but he was too heavy and her throat hurt terribly and her head as well, blood pounding in synchronous rhythm with the movement of his body above and inside hers.

"Mmm," he murmured when she finally realized how futile it was to keep struggling, when her hands fell limply to her sides and the tears began streaming from her eyes. "Just as tight and wet and good as I expected. Of course, you could move your bum a bit, give us a better ride, eh?" He grinned down at her, a savage, gleeful grin that was completely foreign to his features, his eyes still that dark brown, nearly black of the predator he'd suddenly morphed into. Not that Sherlock was anyone's pushover, but this feral cruelty was alien to him.

"No? Can't see your way to enjoying your reward? Not even the littlest bit?" Oh, his voice, so cruel, so mocking, far, far worse than anything cutting or unkind he'd ever said to her in the past. Still the hint of the Irish to it, but back into his own deep baritone. He'd gone mad, a temporary madness she knew he would regret as soon as it passed, but until then, until he regained his senses, all she could do was endure what was already happening to her at the hands of the man she loved.

She nearly gagged as he pressed his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue along her lips, forcing them open – and whimpered as she tasted herself on his mouth, thrashing her head from side to side in attempt to escape the enforced intimacy. Why had he...

"Had to get you ready for me, Molly, and I've been mad for another taste of you since you dumped me."

There it was again; not Sherlock's voice, but _Jim's_. Not just the accent and the words, but something more, something harder to define. If Sherlock had ever shown any talent at mimicry she'd understand, but even when in disguise John described his changes in voice only as something slightly different than normal; he'd certainly never indicated Sherlock could literally change his voice. Or was she only hearing what she wanted to hear, some sign that this wasn't actually Sherlock doing these things to her, in spite of the evidence of her eyes and body?

When she chanced a look at his face, she gasped as she saw that his eyes had returned to their normal blue-green, the flecks of amber nearly swallowed up by his blown-back pupils. As she watched, almost distracted enough by the sight to forget what he was doing to her, they once again seemed to bleed dark brown from the pupils out, until his eyes were no longer those of Sherlock Holmes – but were entirely Jim Moriarty.

"Close," he gasped out, his hands digging painfully into her upper arms. She winced, bit her lip, closed her eyes, then snapped them open with something very like shock as he muttered: "There's a love, Molly. How could you doubt me after this?"

Those had been the very words 'Jim from IT' had spoken to her after their first – and only – sexual encounter. She'd never repeated them to anyone, never written them in her blog or jotted them down in an idle moment, never shared them with DI Lestrade when she was questioned about her involvement with him after he'd tried to kill John and Sherlock.

Something was very, very wrong here. Her skin prickled and she felt a coil of nausea as she broke out in a cold sweat. No matter what seemed to be happening to her, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wasn't Sherlock drugged up or gone mad and raping her.

It was Jim Moriarty.


	5. Whatever Remains, However Improbable

"Fuck."

Mary Morstan – blonde, blue-eyed, and buxom, the three B's as she laughingly put it when in the mood to tease John about the way he'd described her in his blog after their first meeting – looked over his shoulder to see who the text was from. "Is it the dick you call a flatmate?" she asked as she returned to nibbling on John's ear. "Tell him to sod off, you're busy getting your cock sucked by your latest 'conquest'."

She still couldn't believe that bastard had had the nerve to taunt John about his relationship with her, and in such a cruel manner. Even John's excuse that Sherlock was having a bad reaction to confronting the site of his faked suicide wasn't enough to soothe her considerable ire; the son of a bitch had chosen the wrong woman to fuck with.

"No, it's not him," John replied absently. "It's Mrs. Hudson...shit, what's he done now?" he groaned as Mary gave in to the inevitable and scooted to his side, allowing him to roll over onto his back.

They were in her bed, the covers askew and both completely naked, having spent the better part of the evening fucking each other's brains out in the aftermath of their disastrous lunch with Sherlock bloody Holmes and his massive ego. She really wanted to get on with the consulting detective, for John's sake, but he wasn't making it easy. Yes, John had warned her he would most likely go out of his way to be nasty to her, to try and bait her into a reaction, but what that man had said about her – however true some of it might be – was absolutely unconscionable. The next time she saw him he was going to get the sharp edge of her tongue...and not in the way she'd just been giving it to her lovely Johnny.

"Shit!" The swear was more forceful this time; Mary sat up and watched as John scrambled out from beneath the rumpled covers and started shoving his clothes back on. "Mary, something's happened back at the flat, I have to go."

"What is it?" she asked, jumping out of bed and hunting for her own clothing. They hadn't exactly been neat about where things landed when they'd been removed. "What's wrong? Can I help?"

She was a nurse, studying nights to earn her medical degree, a slow course to take but the only way she could afford her dream of becoming a pediatrician one day. She'd always been patient, at least when it came to achieving her goals.

John hesitated in the middle of shoving his socks back onto his feet; she could see the indecision in his eyes as he considered her offer. "Not sure," he finally replied. "Mrs. Hudson's message says it's urgent, it's about Molly – but that's it. No details. With the mood he's been in today, Sherlock probably said something unforgivable to her, too. No," he finally decided as he pulled her into his arms and gave her a distracted kiss. "I'd better go alone. Molly barely knows you, and if Sherlock's got her upset enough to go to Mrs. Hudson, she might not appreciate more of an audience than the two of us." He smiled apologetically. "Don't hate me, yeah?"

"Never, John Watson," she replied, pulling his face close to hers for another kiss, this one a bit more lingering than the soft peck he'd given her a moment earlier. "Just call me if it turns out to be a medical emergency instead."

Although she had no way of knowing it at the time, those words would come back to haunt her in the days to come.

**oOo**

"He did what…no, I can't…"

Words failed John as he stared at Molly's tearstained face. She was huddled into an oversized dressing-gown belonging to Mrs. Hudson, her eyes enormous and haunted in a way he hadn't seen since the day he confronted her about her knowledge of Sherlock's survival after his supposed suicide. John's gaze moved downward as Molly reached up to tug at the dressing-gown's lapels, revealing an ugly circle of darkening bruises around her throat.

Bruises that would doubtlessly exactly match the spread of Sherlock's hands.

"He went tearing out of here," Mrs. Hudson said, launching back into the narrative John's incredulous exclamation had interrupted. He had never seen her so angry, so hurt and bewildered all at once, and suspected his own face reflected the same mix of emotions. However, when she glanced at Molly, it wasn't only concern that softened her features; she seemed uncertain as well. "Tell him, Molly," she said in her gentlest, most soothing voice. "Tell John what you told me, luv."

Molly seemed to shrink into herself a bit before suddenly straightening her posture, folding her hands on her laps to still their nervous twitching. Without removing her gaze from John's face, she told him, straight-faced and with no signs of hysteria, that she didn't believe it was Sherlock who'd hurt her in this unthinkable manner. That she didn't want to contact the police, except maybe Greg Lestrade, because she knew they'd chalk her story up to denial and unwillingness to face the truth of what a man she'd trusted had done to her.

"It wasn't him, John. It wasn't Sherlock. It was Jim Moriarty. Somehow he's come back from the dead and taken over Sherlock's body. He's the one who did this to me." Her face turned pleading. "You have to believe me. It wasn't just the way he sounded, but some of the things he said…he said things that no one else would know but the two of us. Things I never told Sherlock or anyone about. Things he couldn't possibly deduce. It's the only explanation that makes any sense. Please, tell me you believe me," she finished up in a choked whisper, one hand reaching out as if to touch him before subsiding to her lap, where it twisted itself nervously around its mate.

"He's been odd ever since he came down from the roof," Molly pressed on when he remained silent, struggling with what she clearly believed was the truth – struggling to decide if it was a truth he could accept or was exactly what it appeared to be on the face of; a woman in denial about being attacked by a man she loved.

His best friend. The same man who'd willingly sacrificed two years of his life, faked his own death, just to keep his friends safe. And bring down a criminal empire, of course, but the original impetus had been entirely unselfish.

Sherlock could do – and had done – many, many questionable things since John had met him. He'd admitted to using drugs to try and slow the endless whirling of his mind; he'd actually drugged John himself in the Baskerville case. He'd shown himself to be perfectly willing to break the law when it suited him, and he had been known on more than one occasion to treat people with a rather callous contempt.

He'd also gone to that long-ago rooftop knowing that, even with thirteen possible scenarios in mind, it might all go to shit and he might actually die.

He'd also always denied the needs of his body to the point of asceticism, calling it transport for the only part that really counted: the mind.

A man like that might conceivably snap, but to do what had been done to Molly?

No. Not Sherlock. John simply couldn't believe it of him. And if he was exhibiting the same denial as Molly, then so be it. He looked at her, holding her gaze as he said the three words she most needed to hear right now.

"I believe you."

The only question was, what were they going to do about it?

* * *

_A/N: I know, John is easily convinced. But he WANTS to be. And there will be proof. Stay tuned for more! Thanks as always for the lovely reviews, and a special thanks to Nocturnias for helping me stay the course when I was about to collide with some very rocky shoals! _


	6. The Devil You Know

_A/N: Warnings for really awful things Sherlock/Moriarty says to Mary, and thoughts of violence. Thanks for sticking with this twisted saga so far! All reviews received with gratitude and a great deal of pleasure on the author's part, always. :)_

* * *

The buzzer rang, and Mary sighed, dropping her fashion magazine down on the coffee table before hauling herself to her feet. "Who is it?" she called as she neared the front door to her flat. She wasn't expecting anyone but John, and he had his own key. She hadn't heard from him since he'd dashed off an hour earlier, but trusted him to text or call as soon as he could. She just hoped everything was...all...right...

She'd reached the door and finally heard an answer to her question, which literally stopped her in her tracks, both physically and mentally. "It's Sherlock, Mary. We need to talk."

They needed...to talk. Mary felt her anger boiling over. After the hideous things he'd said about her at lunch, he had the nerve to show up on her doorstep and tell her they needed to _talk_?!

She yanked the door open and glared up at him, unintimidated by either his height or the haughty expression on his face. "You think we need to talk, Mr. Holmes?" she snapped out at him. "I think you've already said everything I ever want to hear from you. Ever!"

He ignored both her angry words and her combative stance, stepping around her uninvited to enter the flat. She gaped at him – the _gall_ of that man, the sheer arrogance of assuming she would ever want him in her flat after the things he'd said!

Still, she shut the door and folded her arms tightly across her chest, some small, curious (and no doubt masochistic) part of her wondering what exactly he'd come here to say. Would he offer her an apology, an excuse, or try to justify himself in some way?

She should have known he'd do none of those things. Not after that contemptuous display at lunch, where he'd thrown her former marriage in her face ("She failed at it once, John, what makes you think she'll do better at it a second time, especially with someone who's waited until he reached his 40s to finally settle down?") along with her inability to bear children ("Do you really want a barren wife, John? She has told you that about herself, hasn't she?") and assorted lesser failings.

It hadn't made the hurt any less, knowing that none of this was news to John, but to hear such vitriol from a man her future husband (and he was going to be her future husband, she was determined on that) considered his best and closest friend – that had been something of a shock. Yes, she'd been braced for Sherlock to not like her, to say things that would make her uncomfortable, but she hadn't expected the man to apparently outright hate her.

"So, you're here," she said after a long moment passed in silence, with Sherlock simply standing in front of her sofa and scowling at her, arms crossed just as defensively as hers. "What do you want to talk about? How you're a jealous git who can't stand the idea of anyone taking John away from you?"

She'd meant that sarcastically, but stiffened when Sherlock's glower darkened, his eyes narrowed and his arms dropped to his sides, hands clenched in fists. He took two steps forward, three, until suddenly he was right in front of her, and where she hadn't been afraid before, suddenly she was. There was such an air of coiled, barely restrained violence about him, that she actually wondered if he was about to hit her.

As soon as he started speaking, she discovered she would have preferred physical blows to the emotional ones he rained down on her, one after the other, eating away at her (she'd believed) carefully hidden insecurities as to the true nature of his and John's relationship before Sherlock had faked his death. Before she'd met John and fallen in love with him.

Sherlock, it appeared, had done so first. "You think you can make him happy?" he snarled, his glare deadly enough to kill. "Yes, you helped him through a difficult period of his life, but I'm back now, Miss Morstan, and it won't be long before John gives you the speech. The one you've been subconsciously bracing yourself for ever since I returned. The 'it isn't you, it's me' speech. The 'I love you but I'm not in love with you' speech. The 'you can't possibly understand what he means to me' speech."

His sneer deepened with every word, and Mary found herself flinching a bit as he continued to invade her personal space until suddenly she realized she'd back up against the door with her hands pressed against it. "You do know that John and I were lovers before I was forced to sacrifice myself to save him, don't you? Oh, it took a while for him to get past the whole 'gay' thing, which is no doubt why he immediately turned to the first woman who would have him after he thought I died, but while we were together he lost every single inhibition he'd ever had."

Mary felt as if she couldn't breathe, as if the words spewing from Sherlock's mouth were stealing the breath from her. She opened her mouth to try and say something, although her mind was a complete blank, but Sherlock wouldn't stop, just kept going. "He let me suck him off, he fucked me and let me fuck him. I know him intimately, Miss Morstan, in ways you never will. I know what he likes, how to make him moan and scream. I've heard him calling out my name, begging for me to fuck him harder, tasted his cum and swallowed it down – but you don't do that, do you?" His voice lowered to a husky whisper as his lips turned up in a triumphant, malicious grin. "Good Catholic girls don't swallow, do they, Miss Morstan?"

She didn't know she was going to slap him until her hand was in the air. However, he was faster, reaching out to grab her wrist in a crushing hold before her hand could connect with his cheek. "Oh, no, Miss Morstan," he growled. "I let John hit me because he matters to me, whereas you mean," he leaned his head down so that his lips practically grazed her ear, "absolutely _nothing_ to me. And even though he's denying it at the moment, John feels exactly the same way."

Then he pulled back, yanking her away from the door by the grip he'd maintained on her wrist. He only released her after he'd pulled the door open. Giving her one last, contemptuous sneer, he strode out of the door, leaving Mary gaping after him, stunned and, after a few minutes, weeping angry, hurt tears.

Not only because Sherlock had spewed out such venom to her...but because deep down, in her most secret self, she'd always been afraid that she'd just been fooling herself. That John would leave her for Sherlock, that he loved the other man more than he loved her.

**oOo**

Lestrade was next on his list, but Jim wasn't entirely sure he'd make it to the Detective Inspector's house before John came after him. By now Molly had no doubt shared her tearful story with him, tried to convince him that Sherlock was possessed – and been hustled off to a trauma center, where John would urge her to seek counseling as soon as possible, to help her cope with what had happened to her at the hands of a man she trusted. And no doubt the police would be after him as well, as an accused rapist. It was a gamble, going to Lestrade's house, but since he wasn't generally called in for sex crimes, it was a gamble Moriarty was willing to take.

His triumphant smirk turned to a snarl as he felt Sherlock howling his anger from deep inside the mental prison to which he'd been confined. Why couldn't he just accept his defeat gracefully? Just because he'd managed to temporarily best the great Jim Moriarty once didn't mean he'd ever manage to do it again! "Sorry, Sherly, but there's really nothing you can do about it," he murmured as he strode down the pavement, eyes scanning the street for a taxi. He had no intentions of either legging it or taking the Tube to Lestrade's house.

The grin reappeared as he went over his plans for the Detective Inspector, giving his prisoner a peek before slamming the lid down on his thoughts, isolating Sherlock from all outside stimulus. He needed to focus, not let the other man distract him from the plan. No, it was time to make a confession to DI Greg Lestrade, to have 'Sherlock Holmes' admit to fucking his friend's wife behind his back. "Sorry, Lestrade, I know I should have told you this a long time ago...yes, that sounds smug and regretful at the same time," Moriarty muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

Well. Not _his_ hands, not entirely – and not for more than a day or two more. He looked down at Sherlock's hands, so much longer and, he could admit it, more elegant than his own had been. Paler, too, but looking quite lethal encased in those black leather gloves he favored.

He pictured those gloved hands wrapped around the throat of Sally Donovan, the woman who'd 'betrayed' Sherlock, ruined his life and forced him into a two-year exile, all because she was so easily lead into believing exactly what he, Jim Moriarty, had wanted her to believe.

"You'll like that part of the plan, Sherlock," he whispered to himself, then whistled and waved his hand as a taxi finally cruised by. _That'll be the last bit, killing that bitch. Everyone will believe you did it because she accused you of being the kidnapper of those two brats. They'll call it payback or revenge, but either way, Sally Donovan will be D-E-A-D dead. And after that, well, we won't actually need to do anything further to John or your landlady, will we? They'll believe that you went completely bonkers, lost your mind, and killed yourself for real. John will be a mess, don't you think? Drowning in guilt and anger...I wonder how long it'll take him to off himself, hm? Too bad you'll already be dead by the time he does!_

Silence echoed through his mind as the cab pulled up beside him, and Moriarty frowned; he disliked Sherlock not responding when given permission to do so almost more than he disliked Sherlock managing a reaction on his own. He got into the cab, absently gave the driver the directions to Lestrade's residence, then sank back in the seat, eyes closed, as he hunted down Sherlock's essence, enraged that the other man sought to hide from him. _What the hell do you think you're doing, Sherlock?_

No response. He started to growl with frustration, remembering at the last moment that it wasn't time for others to see the supposed cracks in the great detective's facade. Not yet. Not until he'd had his fun with Lestrade – who was probably going to punch him much harder than John had after lunch – and squeezed the life out of Sally Donovan and made a threatening phone call to that idiot, Anderson. After that, yes, it would be perfectly wonderful for as many people as possible to witness Sherlock's 'breakdown', and of course he wanted an audience for the final act.

This time, no fake outs, no pliable, pathetic pathologist to help him. Sherlock's reputation would be smashed to pieces, the man would be dead, and no one would be willing or able to believe in him. Not this time.

"Time to burn a few more bridges," he whispered, frowning again when there was still no answer, not so much as the hint of an emotional reaction from his prisoner. Where the hell had he hidden himself away, and how had he learned to do so? None of Moriarty's other victims had been able to so much as blink without him letting them do it, but then, none of his other victims had been Sherlock Holmes.

His frown vanished, replaced by a gleeful smile. He very nearly laughed out loud; he was actually quite pleased that Sherlock was making things more difficult for him. _The game is on_, he thought, directing the words throughout the mind he'd usurped, knowing that, even if Sherlock wasn't reacting or allowing his reactions to be felt, he was still hearing everything Jim wanted him to.

After all, it wasn't as if Sherlock could leave the prison of his own mind.

Could he?

A tendril of doubt curled through his mind as he tightened his focus, searching for any sign of Sherlock Holmes. If the man had somehow found a way to remove himself from the prison of her own mind – and body – then Moriarty needed to know. Cursing silently to himself, he continued the hunt while the oblivious cabbie drove on.


	7. Battlestations

_A/N: Thanks as always for your wonderful supportive reviews. No warnings for this chapter except for references to alcoholism._

* * *

_He was in his mind palace, the part that he rarely visited and was most likely to be overlooked by Moriarty, no matter how hard he searched. A secret room in the attic, hidden behind discarded furniture and shrouded in cobwebs._

_The memories of his early childhood. Nothing that usually interested him...and would certainly never interest Moriarty. Nothing useful here, nothing that could be used against him – because no matter what others might speculate, Sherlock Holmes had actually had a rather ordinary childhood, had been raised by equally ordinary parents, put up with an obnoxious older brother, neither of them realizing at first how extraordinarily different they were from other children._

_The memories after that knowledge had been thrust upon the Holmes brothers were kept rigorously separate from those that had come before. A clear demarcation, of the combined bliss of ignorance and innocence, until the discovery of difference had been made._

_No, Moriarty would not even notice this mental hidey-hole. He might circle around it, but he would never be able to breach the quiet defenses that had long been erected. Oh, Sherlock could feel him, hear him, howling around the perimeter as he fruitlessly sought his prisoner, but like a vampire in an old movie, he couldn't enter unless he was invited in. And Sherlock Holmes had absolutely no intention of allowing his captor access to any more of his mind than he'd already plundered, now that he understood how to erect the proper defenses around his deepest sense of self._

_He ignored Moriarty's frantic search, narrowing his own focus on what he'd learned about the supernatural entity that had taken over his body, then used it to do and say such horrific things to the people Sherlock cared about._

_He very carefully refused to acknowledge how sickened he'd been when Moriarty used his body to rape Molly Hooper. The verbal damage the madman had inflicted on John and Mary was bad, very bad, but it was all lies and lies could be refuted. What Moriarty had done to Molly, however...that could not be refuted, ignored, or deleted._

_It could, however, be temporarily put aside, compartmentalized. He could not dwell on the sick horror he'd felt as he'd been forced to watch, helpless to stop it, any of it. He couldn't stop Moriarty from using his hands to choke Molly into unconsciousness, to strip of his own clothing and hers. Couldn't stop him from using Sherlock's mouth to orally stimulate Molly, or from driving himself into her before she fully returned to consciousness..._

_With a snarl of rage, Sherlock slammed the lid down on the memories before they had the chance to overwhelm him. He needed to focus, dammit, to find a way out of the trap his own mind and body had become, to find a way to stop Moriarty from doing any more damage – and to get him the hell out._

_More than that, he had to be stopped from ever doing something like this to anyone else._

_With that goal firmly in mind, Sherlock reviewed everything he'd learned since Moriarty had taken control of his body. The supernatural entity – ghost, spirit, what have you – had access to Sherlock's memories and the ability to use them against him…up to a point. The limitations, however, appeared to have more to do with Sherlock's ability to control his own thoughts rather than any lack of ability on Moriarty's part. The key word, of course, being 'appeared'. If that hypothesis proved incorrect in the future, then it would be discarded. However, for now its validity was holding true, as Moriarty seemed unable to either locate Sherlock's hiding place, or even to recognize its existence in the first place. Good._

_Moriarty couldn't control Sherlock's thoughts, only his body. He could share his own thoughts with his prisoner, although Sherlock held no illusions that Moriarty had opened his mind to him completely. No, he limited that sense of mental sharing to only what he wanted Sherlock to know; logic alone told him that._

_Logic also told him that there was a time limit on Moriarty's possession of his body, else the madman wouldn't have been moving at such a breakneck speed to destroy the relationships that Sherlock had established. No, he'd have moved with much more deliberation, savoring every victory, wringing as much satisfaction out of every move as he could, rather than ticking items off as if destroying Sherlock's life was a grocery list._

_Another fact, interesting and one Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he was comfortable with: he'd been able to physically affect his own body, altering the color of his irises so that Molly had some sort of tangible, or at least visible, proof that it wasn't Sherlock doing those hateful things to her. He'd seen her eyes widen in recognition of the impossible, and gambled that, taken in conjunction with the way Moriarty had deliberately used phrasing she seemed to recognize when he'd finished abusing her, should be enough for her to not simply take things at face value._

_The question was, what would Molly do with that information – what could any of them do with the knowledge that James Moriarty's spirit had possessed Sherlock Holmes's body?_

_With that question in mind, Sherlock Holmes settled himself to research every bit of knowledge he'd retained regarding paranormal activities._

_None of them, he swore, would go down without a fight._

**oOo**

"What do we do, then? How do we get rid of Moriarty?"

Molly had showered and dressed herself, borrowing one of Mrs. Hudson's blouses to replace the one 'Sherlock' had ruined. Fortunately he'd left the rest of her clothing intact, and although Molly had every intention of burning every last piece of it at some future point, for now practicality won out.

She'd flat-out refused to go to the police, to retain so much as a single shred of DNA evidence that would convict Sherlock of a crime she was utterly convinced he hadn't committed. John had rather half-heartedly tried to convince her otherwise – "No matter who did it to you, Molly, you were still assaulted and you should still report it, else you might not get the type of help you might need" – but she'd remained firm. Yes, someday she would probably need counseling and in the next few days she would be very likely writing herself a prescription for the morning-after pill, but that was all in the future. She needed to focus on the now, on the situation as it was currently unfolding, and although John clearly didn't agree with her 100% (nor did Mrs. Hudson, for that matter), he was allowing Molly to decide how she wished to handle things.

She was grateful for that, and for the way both he and Mrs. Hudson seemed to believe her, that Sherlock wasn't himself when he attacked her, although she suspected the older woman of humoring her while secretly suspecting Sherlock of backsliding into drug use. But Molly knew what she'd seen, and the way his eyes had changed color was nothing like any sort of side-effect from any drug, legal or not, that Molly had ever heard of.

She knew what she'd heard as well, those chilling words still echoing through her mind as she restlessly paced Mrs. Hudson's sitting room. _There's a love, Molly. How could you doubt me after this?_

John stood with folded arms, gazing down at the floor wearing an abstracted frown, and Mrs. Hudson sat and fidgeted while Molly paced, her hands nervously twisting on her lap. Molly's question hung in the air, unanswered, and she bit back a laugh, knowing how likely it was to devolve into an hysterical cackle if she didn't keep tight control of herself. "Mrs. Hudson, have you ever been to a séance, or had your palm read? Is it possible any of the mediums who have shows on the telly actually know anything about real paranormal activities? John, what do you think?"

John looked up at the sound of his name, and Molly repeated the question she'd just asked Mrs. Hudson. "Probably not," was his pronouncement. "Seems to me anyone who had real abilities wouldn't want to advertise them, yeah? At least, I wouldn't," he muttered, but there was something about the way he said it that caught Molly's attention.

"You know something, John," she said, coming to a stop directly in front of him. "There's something...it wasn't just because you didn't believe Sherlock could do something like this that convinced you to believe me, was it?"

John turned away from her, reaching up to run his hands through his hair before lacing his fingers together on the back of his head and taking a few agitated paces of his own, away from Molly and then back again. "Harry," he finally said, after what appeared to be a serious struggle with himself.

Molly gazed at him blankly, then glanced over at Mrs. Hudson for help. The older woman looked almost as confused as Molly felt, but then she said, "What's your sister got to do with this, John?"

He folded his arms across his chest again and took the chair across from Mrs. Hudson's sofa. "Harry's ex, she was...well, Harry said some things about her, things I dismissed because, well, because of her drinking, to be frank," he said after another long moment. Molly took a seat on the sofa, willing her nervous energy under control long enough to listen to what he was saying, because any lead, no matter how tenuous, needed to be followed. "Harry's ex, she was...interested in the occult. I found out after they'd broken up and my sister started drinking again, that that was why she did it, left her, I mean. Because she thought Clara had gone round the bend. Or at least," he added bitterly, "that was her excuse that time. Any time any little bump in the road comes up, my sister takes it as an excuse to go back on the bottle."

Any other time Molly would have immediately begun to commiserate; however, this time she needed John to stay focused and on topic, for the sake of her sanity and, more importantly, Sherlock's soul. If, of course, it was in danger, which she still wasn't entirely sure about. His body, on the other hand, and his mind...those were clearly in jeopardy.

Before John could say anything more, his mobile rang, a romantic pop tune that must be his ring tone for Mary. Molly wanted to protest, but John had been called away from Mary's flat to help her; the least she could do was let John reassure his girlfriend that everything was...well, not all right, of course, but not desperate. Nobody had died, after all.

At least, not yet.

"Mary? Yeah, honey...wait, slow down, _what_?!" There was a log silence on John's end, and Molly felt her feet tapping as her nerves reminded her that they were far from settled. Mrs. Hudson put her hand on Molly's knee in a comforting gesture as they waited for John's call to finish up. Clearly something was wrong, and Molly's instincts were screaming at her that it was something to do with Sherlock – Moriarty, that is.

Those instincts were confirmed when John finally spoke, promising Mary that he knew what was happening and would take care of it, that she shouldn't let what Sherlock had said to her bother her because none of it was true, and that he would explain everything just as soon as he'd gotten it sorted out. That led to another round of silence on his end while Mary once again spoke, then another set of promises and reassurances from John that he was working on it, that Sherlock wasn't in his right mind and that he loved her, Mary, and would make sure that she received not only a full explanation as soon as he had one for her, but also an apology.

After he hung up the mobile he stood staring down at it for a moment before looking up to meet the concerned gazes of Molly and Mrs. Hudson. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair in an abstracted gesture before shoving the mobile into his pocket. "Sherlock's been to see Mary," he said, voice crackling with tension and restrained fury. "He said some…pretty awful things to her. Things I know Sherlock would never say because they're straight up lies. Lies meant to hurt her and make her doubt me and…" He fell silent, drawing a deep, shuddering breath before letting it out in an explosive blast. "We have to stop him. We have to get Moriarty out of Sherlock's body and make sure he can never do anything like this to anyone else. I'm going to call my sister and see if she has a current number for Clara."

"Right, and Molly, let's get on the laptop, shall we?" Mrs. Hudson proposed, standing up and gesturing toward her kitchen table. "Surely there must be something on that dreadful internet that can help us!"

Grateful for something to do, Molly nodded and followed the older woman as John left the flat, obviously so he could speak to his estranged sister in private.

Someone had to be able to help them, to save Sherlock from being further damaged by his unwanted supernatural invader. She refused to believe otherwise.


End file.
